Open Road Summer(88)

I glower at him as he runs a hand over his short hair. Suddenly, I’m remembering the night I cut it, in the hotel room, and that familiar emotion creeps into my chest. I’m not a songwriter, and I’m not sure how to describe that feeling. It’s the one I’ve come to associate with Matt—the swell of newness and infatuation and trepidation. Together, they’re enough to make you feel high, like you’re living life right on the edge of something good.

“Infuriating,” Matt repeats. He gestures angrily, his arms flying at his sides. “It honestly keeps me up at night. You’re complicated and hard-shelled and impossible.”

I cross my arms, rocking myself slightly. Without my shoes on, I’m thrown off by how much taller he is than me. “I ran all this way so you could insult me?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Matt continues, ignoring me. “We’re good for each other. I know we are. I had a seven-hour drive to think about it. This summer, you made me face up to a lot of stuff I was hiding from because you don’t see me as that guy from the Finch Four. I don’t have to keep any shields up, because you see right through them anyway. And I see you, too, Reagan—you know I do—and I like all of it, even the parts you try to hide.”

I look down at my feet, embarrassed because I know exactly what he means. We both had terrible things happen to us before the tour started. Being together didn’t make his mom’s death or my casted arm okay, but Matt’s brokenness gave me silent permission to be broken, too, to feel comfortable even in my not-okay-ness. And it’s so much more than that, too. I’m addicted to his confidence and kindness; to his stupid, cheeky comments; to the dimples that show up only when he’s really amused. But if he hurts me again, if he leaves, then what happens to me? Withdrawal? A new addiction? Or just the same brokenness as before.

“And the thing is,” Matt says, taking a step toward me. His voice is quieter now, watching my face. “I could have sworn you felt the same way.”

I open my mouth to say “I don’t care.” It has to be the biggest lie in the English language: I don’t care. We say it with a scoff or a snort, like caring is so beneath us. I don’t care that my mom left—her loss; I don’t care. Those girls who tormented me in school—whatever, they’re tragic bitches; I don’t care. Some people do, though. Dee cares about everything, with no apologies or irony, and I admire her for it. Maybe I’m sick of not caring, of saying “I don’t care” so fervently that even I believe it.

I feel my eyebrows crease, and I know I’m going to give myself away. I do feel the same way—of course I do. I’d never get this mad at someone I didn’t care about. It’s the damnedest thing, how you’re most vulnerable to the people you care about most. He looks vindicated by my expression, surer of his claim.

“So I’m going to keep showing up here until you can say to my face that you want me out of your life,” he says. “Not because you’re protecting yourself from getting hurt, but because you really don’t want me.”


Maybe I want you out of my life because you betrayed me. But the thought is a lie, top to bottom. I don’t want him out of my life, and I don’t even really believe he betrayed me. I know now that he was in the wrong place, and I walked in at the wrong time. It doesn’t change the fact that recalling the two of them together feels like getting my heart run over by a lawn mower.

“This all sounds really nice, Matt.” I sigh, filling each syllable with sarcasm. My mind finds Corinne’s face, the face of the girl I found in Blake’s bed. “But what happens when you meet another girl you’d rather be with?”

He looks at me hard. “What happens if you meet some guy you want to date? Or get sick of me or sick of being in a relationship? We talk, we fight, maybe we break up. I can only tell you that I’ll end it like a man—no cheating or getting mean and distant.”

“Why bother, Matt?” I give a bitter laugh. “Why should we bother when we’re standing here negotiating the terms of our likely breakup?”

My eyes meet his, that steely color not backing down. And the thing is: it’s not a rhetorical question. I want him to give me a reason—a reason worth risking it for. When he opens his mouth to reply, his voice is quiet but determined.

“Because I’ve recently learned, in a very painful way, that life is short. And I don’t want to waste my time with anyone who would make me feel . . . happy enough.” He pauses, searching my face. “I’d rather duke it out with someone who makes me feel everything.” A thick lump is rising in my throat, and I swallow it down, like I always do. But hell if my lip isn’t quivering ever so slightly, right beyond my control. He’s defrosting me, and he knows it. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I might hurt you,” I blurt out. I can be selfish and insensitive, and I have a mean streak that compels me to do things, like have someone’s car towed. He’s no safer from me than I am from him. Without particularly meaning to, I uncross my arms, clasping my hands together. “Honestly, I might.”

“I know that.”

“And you might hurt me.”

“Maybe.” He keeps his eyes on mine, but his hand finds my still-scrawny wrist. He lifts it up gently, exposing the pale underside and the hand-drawn stars. “But never like this.”